


After the Fall

by kanronotatsu



Series: The Titans [2]
Category: Olympus Has Fallen (2013), Olympus Has Fallen (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Guns, I swear I didn't want to make it this way, Lee's very good at internalizing shit, bridge between OHF and LHF, but wait it's all drama, expect DRAMA from chapter 3 and on, expect some short stories, follow-up and fillers, some Mike POV, thoughts about death and killing people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanronotatsu/pseuds/kanronotatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-ups and fillers to bridge the time period between OHF and LHF, until I can watch the latter and get around to write about that. Will elaborate a bit more on my OC, CIA agent Lee Cameron, her past and future, also her relationship with Mike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The time you lost

Lee’s face was chalk-white with tiny drops of blood splattered all over it. Her breathing was ragged, forced, and I had the terrible feeling that we were too late. She will drown in her own blood if I don’t get her to an ambulance soon. Very soon. I felt her hand clutching to my vest like she was hanging onto life itself, and I had no doubt she knew too what was happening. I dared to glance at her, but I only saw raw fear and the lingering touch of death. She was wheezing, and coughed again, and this time there was no intake of breath following. I saw her lips move, and I guessed she wanted to say something, but no air came from her lungs. There was no air in her lungs. Her grip loosened and I had to watch, helpless, as her head fell back, her eyes fluttering shut as her whole body slumped in my arms. 

It seemed like forever till we got to the main entrance. The President was following close behind, but he ordered me to take care of Lee first, he could walk on his own. Out of the House there was a flurry of cameras and reporters. Soldiers escorted me to an ambulance, where I put her down on a gurney. For the last two minutes her body was only dead weight in my arms, and my heart sunk at the thought that I was too late. Again. Somebody was dead because I was late. The medics started CPR on her in a second, putting her on an ambulance car, driving away with full speed, with the sirens wailing. 

I was lost in the noise, the world was in a turmoil around me, but I barely noticed. I was standing in the middle of the road, while other medics fussed about me, trying to make me move so they could see to my wounds. I let myself be led to another ambulance car, but frankly, I could care less what they did to me. The only thing I could think of was Lee’s dead body in my arms.

* * *

 

A day later I was allowed to leave the hospital. My injuries weren’t life-threatening, just a few bruised ribs and some cuts here and there. Jacobs came to pick me up and filled me in on what had happened in the 24 hours I was out of the centre of events. President Asher was fine, reunited with his son, and undergone surgery to remove the bullet from his side. 

“How about agent Cameron?”

My voice was steady, despite the inner turmoil. But Jacobs knew me enough to realise I was nervous. She sighed.

“Agent Cameron’s through the worst, but she’s in a coma. She was too long under, the doctors don’t know if she suffered any brain damage, and they can’t find out until she wakes up. Which can be anytime.”

I took a long moment to process the information. We were already out of the room, walking towards the far end of the corridor. So Lee was alive. At least that was something.

“Her family has been notified, I believe they are already here.”

“Her family?”

Jacobs threw me a side glance as we were waiting for the elevator to arrive.

“I bet you didn’t have time to talk about that. Her parents are living in Iowa, they are both teachers at some high school. Needless to say, they were extremely surprised to find out what their only daughter did for a living.”

No wonder, I thought. I couldn’t imagine what it could be like, finding out that your child is a government agent, a spy technically, and that now she’s between life and death. I had no idea, and I never wanted to find out how it feels. 

 

A few floors down we got out of the elevator. Both President Asher and Lee had been brought to the emergency care. I was the lucky one, getting out almost unscatched, while others were dying around me. Survivor's guilt will kick in shortly, I knew, but right now Lee was the priority. I said goodbye to Jacobs, who was going to check in on Asher, and we turned in opposite directions. It was absolute necessity that I would see Lee, I needed to be reassured that she was alive and breathing. Otherwise her dead weight on my arms will haunt me all the time.

Her room was big, light poured in from the window which was facing the river. I stopped at the foot of Lee’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall with every breath. She wasn’t hooked to life support, which was a good sign. Her face regained some of its original color too. The device monitoring her heart rate beeped quietly and rhythmically, providing a monotonous background noise. I felt like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Whatever will happen, I did what I could, Lee is alive, breathing on her own, her life had not ended. It’s not my responsibility from now on. 

“Excuse me, but who are you?”

I turned around to see a middle-aged woman standing in the door, a grocery bag in her hand and a frown on her face. Her blond hair was tied back into a tight bun and she was looking at me like at any minute she will shout for the security. 

“I’m sorry for intruding. My name is Mike Banning.”

“Oh.”

Her face betrayed some surprise and equal amounts of curiosity. She ran her eyes over me in a familiar way. I glanced at Lee then back at the woman, their features were quite similar, but not too much. Either way they couldn’t deny that they were related.

“That lady from the Secret Service told me you might come over.”

She closed the door behind her and put the grocery bag on the nightstand by Lee’s bed. I caught her pained expression as her eyes fell on her daughter’s face, but it was quickly gone and she turned to me with a small smile. She extended her hand to me and I took it.

“I’m Jennifer Cameron. I know you saved Bathsheba’s life. Thank you, Mr. Banning.”

Now, I was a bit baffled. What Bathsheba? I looked down on the sleeping woman in the hospital bed. Yes, that was indeed CIA agent Lee Cameron, lying there, I wasn’t in the wrong room.

“Bathsheba…”

Mrs. Cameron burst out laughing, which surprised me a great deal. It seems mother and daughter both had some incomprehensible sense of humour I could not follow.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but your face just now was very funny.” Mrs Cameron pulled herself together and pointed at a chair at the other side of the room “Please, sit down. I guess she told you her name was Lee.”

“Yes.” I pulled the appointed chair closer to the bed and sat down, facing Mrs. Cameron.

“That’s her middle name, she doesn’t like to use Bathsheba.”

I refrained from saying that I could guess why, instead cleared my throat and nodded sympathetically. 

“Her father is teaching literature in high school, and he wanted to name her after a character in a book. We agreed on Bathsheba, after Bathsheba Everdene, because we both liked that character. I think, in retrospective, we hadn’t really thought it through enough.”

She settled into another chair in the meanwhile and smiled at the memory. I started to feel uncomfortable, like I was intruding upon the family. After all, I barely knew Lee, and I doubt she would ever have told me about her family at all. Now I felt like I was spying on her, or something, which was silly, but still made me feel guilty. Mrs Cameron seemed to have sensed my discomfort, and swept it away instantly.

“You are welcome to come visit her whenever you like. My husband stayed home for a few days, but he will join me soon. He would like to see you too, I think. Besides, you’re the only one from that side who came for a visit.”

I hazarded a guess that ‘that side’ meant the government. I didn’t blame them, the CIA wasn’t likely to admit their ties to Lee so fast. But they could’ve sent a card at least. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Cameron.”

She smiled at me again, then turned to Lee and took her hand. 

“You know it’s so hard to understand. We both were sure she was working as a travel agent, guiding tourists everywhere in the world. She would travel a lot and she always came back with stories, souvenirs. And now… And now…” she broke off, wiping away a tear from her eyes. I remained silent, some things you better get off your mind, before they eat you alive from the inside.

“A government official called us that she went missing, that they were looking for her, but the tour she organised was hijacked and nobody knew what had happened to them. We were devastated, worried, anxious, then after a few months we slowly accepted that she would never come home to us anymore. We tried to move on and then came the attack. And there she was, on TV, in Washington, in the middle of the terrorist attack. I remember my husband’s face, he looked like he saw a ghost. We couldn’t believe it. What would our daughter do at such a place? Why was she there? When and how did she get back to the US? It was all very confusing, you see.”

So Lee’s cover was a travel agent who organised tours everywhere in the world. Convenient and clever. This would explain the travelling and the need to know multiple languages. The only thing I could not understand is how a girl from the Midwest, with parentage like this, decides to become a spy? But that was a question Mrs Cameron could not answer, obviously.

“Oh I’m sorry, where are my manners? Would you like some water, Mr Banning? Or something to eat?”

“Please, just call me Mike.”

She offered me a glass of water I did take, and produced from the grocery bag a wide array of snacks, ranging from fruits to crackers. I declined the offer to take anything.

“Michael. You have a wonderful name. Archangel Michael is the patron of soldiers, did you know? It fits you well.”

I nodded again, a bit baffled by this flood of information. I could hear Lee’s voice in my head saying ‘Then his parents chose his name wiser than mine.’ The thought made me smile, but then I looked down at Lee, sleeping soundly it seemed, and my mood quickly waned. 

“What did the doctors say, when will she wake up?” I asked.

Mrs Cameron shook her head slightly before answering.

“They are optimistic, but no one could give me a guess. They cannot say when. She probably will, and the CAT scan doesn’t show any brain damage, but they can’t be sure until she wakes up.” her tone suddenly grew cold “You were there when this happened, right? Tell me that whoever did this is no longer among us.”

I averted my eyes and recalled the moment when we were on our way to the bunker in the elevator. I remember asking Lee if she was ready, and I know she was annoyed by it. I was about to tell her that I kept asking this because she wasn’t combat trained and I needed to know she wouldn’t snap - even if she proved herself before. It was a habit of mine. But I had no time to answer, and the Koreans were upon us in a second - or rather, we were upon them. I just brought down the last man of Kang’s when I heard the shots. Three, in rapid succession. When I looked up, Lee was standing before Kang, both had their guns in their hands, and I just jumped at Kang without any hesitation. While we were fighting I glimpsed Lee walking along the corridor towards the bunker, I vaguely saw that the Cerberus was active, but Kang occupied my mind for the time being. After I got rid of him I went to the President, who pointed at the bunker, where the screen was blank, and Lee was down on the floor, writhing. By the time I got there she was half drowned... 

“Michael?”

Mrs Cameron’s voice dragged me back to reality.

“Yes, he’s dead. The guy who shot Lee, he’s dead.”

She looked right into my eyes, her gaze steady, this time she wasn’t about to cry. Lee certainly inherited her eyes from her mother, they both had a darker circle of brown by their pupil, and a lighter circle around that. 

“Thank you, Michael.”

“She would’ve done the same for me. You know, whatever you thought her to be, she’s a damn good CIA agent. You should be proud of her.”

Perhaps this wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but she nodded all the same, accepting her daughter for who she was. And that wasn’t a travel agent, not by far.

* * *

 

Weeks went by and life slowly returned to its normal state. I got my job back beside the President, it was about time, the office was killing me. Due to the tight schedule and the process of rebuilding the Secret Service I had very little time to visit the hospital. Jennifer, Lee’s mother, was updating me every now and then, and I tried to go in at least a few times a week. 

About three days after the attack, Lee’s father turned up too. He had to take care of some things at their hometown, so that they won’t be missed, although everyone knew what had happened. Lee’s face was all over the news after the attack, and I frequently saw that one picture of us when I was carrying her out of the House. 

Which made me wonder what would happen to her job at the CIA, I mean you couldn’t be a spy if nearly everyone around the world knew your face. And the guessing game began in the media too, regarding Lee’s person. No one knew who she was and what she had been doing at the House, and the official statement was either vague or nonexistent. Someone guessed that she was CIA, but that raised tons of other questions about her role in the attack. And the officials wasn’t about to walk out onto this thin ice by answering questions regarding her. So it was a mess all around, the only people who didn’t care about it were the Camerons and me. 

Some nights I woke from nightmares, which wasn’t unusual, but it was a long time ago I had to deal with this much stress. Jacobs pressed me to go see a therapist, which I did after a while, although reluctantly. It calmed me down a bit, though, so it wasn’t a big waste of time after all. But I concluded that the only thing that would really calm me down is for Lee to wake up finally. This uncertainty of whens and ifs was irritating and did no good to my state of mind. Even if I was back to normal duty, a good part of my brain was occupied with the picture of Lee sleeping on that hospital bed. I needed to erase that picture somehow.

We had long talks with Mrs. Cameron, mostly about Lee, and her childhood, so I felt that I knew a lot about her already. Except that in her adult life there was nothing her mother could tell me and wasn’t a lie. I was getting more and more curious about what made her choose a profession where she had to lie almost constantly to everyone. It just didn’t make any sense to me at all. Mrs. Cameron got to know me too a little, although I talked much less. I told her that I was divorced already, that I was born and raised in a military family, my father being a Marine. That I chose to join the military because of him, and how I became a Ranger. How I left the army and married, joining the Secret Service and eventually becoming the head of the presidential detail. How I failed to save Margaret Asher and that I still felt guilty about it. And how I felt guilty about Lee’s injury too and the state that she was in.

It was strange that me, a grown-ass man, who’s not particularly open about his feelings, could open up to a complete stranger. Mrs. Cameron was a good listener, and she assured me that in no way I was to blame for what had happened. She thanked me over and over again for saving Lee, and Thomas, her father, did the same too, making me really uncomfortable after a while. They started to treat me like family, which made me happy, as I lost mine quite a while ago. I imagined that Lee must’ve had a very happy childhood, considering that she was an only child and she was born at the last moment so to say. Jennifer told me that they were about to turn to adoption, as a last resort, when she finally got pregnant. The way they both talked about her showed how much they loved their daughter, but I had no doubt that Lee would get a long, reproachful speech about hiding her real profession from her parents for so long. 

 

And then, about four weeks after the attack, Lee woke up. By pure luck I was also there, because it was a Saturday, and I got a day off. Having nowhere else to go, I went to the hospital to check on the Camerons. Thomas was out, doing some grocery shopping for their little apartment they rented out for the time being. I took a seat opposite to Jennifer again, and we just started talking when Lee’s hand moved. Mrs. Cameron only noticed because she was holding it right then. We waited for a while to see if it was a false alarm, but Lee’s eyes fluttered open for a second, which was enough to call the doctor.

“She's waking up. Michael, will you be a dear and call a doctor?"

I went searching for one immediately. When I got back into the room, behind the doctor in charge of Lee’s case, she was almost fully awake, drinking water from a glass. For a moment the world seemed to turn around me, I was so glad to see her really alive and functioning again. It was like a dream and I couldn’t help smiling at her. She smiled back, which again was reassuring. The time of wait was over, apparently.

“Let me check your pupils first.”

The doctor leaned over Lee and flashed a light into her eyes, then followed up with some other instructions. It seemed that Lee was alright, although it was plain that moving her upper body was painful to her. The doctor explained what injuries she had and I could see on her face that she was confused. She looked back and forth between the doctor and her mother, so I guessed she was thinking about a cover story for her injuries. I helped her out.

“They know.”

Lee’s face grew rigid for a second, then she looked over at Jennifer, who was shaking her head rigorously. That meant a speech was coming, I knew her enough already to know that, and apparently Lee was anticipating it too, because she tensed a bit.

“Do you know what it was like, seeing you being brought out of the White House after the terrorist attack? Your father noticed that it was you. And you disappeared for five months! We were beyond ourselves with worry and then -”

I had to cut her off. “Mrs. Cameron, please, not now.”

I’m sure she was just too stressed out to think it through, and wouldn’t want to welcome her daughter back to life with preaching about trust to her. Jennifer looked up at me and I saw her eyes go soft. Lee glanced at me questioningly.

“Exactly how long have I been out of it?”

Now this was a question I did not want to answer. We glanced at each other with Mrs. Cameron, and she too seemed reluctant to speak up. Finally the doctor broke our silence.

“You’ve been in a coma for almost a month.”

Lee was stunned, I could see, she suspected that it hadn’t exactly been a short stay, but she didn’t count on a month-long coma. I couldn’t stay silent anymore.

“After I brought you out of the House they managed to bring you back, but you've been too long..." my voice failed me at this point, which was annoying. I cleared my throat to continue.

"So, you fell into a coma. And now you're awake.”

I felt stupid, saying this last part, but it still seemed like a dream to me. I smiled faintly at Lee, who was looking at me like she knew what I was thinking. Then she turned her head towards the window, momentarily leaving our presence. I walked back to the end of the bed, waiting for Lee to put herself together. It only took a minute.

“I... I have to sleep now, I need a bit of time. After that would someone tell me exactly what happened, in detail, and in order?”

Here I could see her glance covertly at Jennifer. Her mother was unarguably a scatterbrained storyteller, it was hard to follow the jumbled up timelines she managed to produce.

“Of course, dear. I'm sure Michael will be glad to talk to you.”

I nodded and Lee just burst out laughing, again about something I could not comprehend. This time Mrs. Cameron was baffled too, although she was genuinely happy to hear Lee’s laugh, I could tell. 

“I love you Mum.”

They squeezed each other’s hands, then Mrs. Cameron stood up, ready to go. It was the first time she left Lee’s side in visiting hours. I never saw her go home before someone practically tossed her out of the hospital, except now.

“We’ll leave you now. Rest well, Sweetie.”

“Thanks.”

Taking up her bag she walked out the door, not looking behind. I followed her, but stopped for a second to look back at the hospital bed. Now it wasn’t a sleeping woman who occupied it, but an alert one, with a questioning look in her eyes. She was expecting me to say something, but I only wanted to memorize this moment. So in my dreams I would not see her dead on a hospital bed, but like this, alive. I smiled at her and closed the door behind me, finally feeling free of all the doubts and worries of the past month.


	2. Between

A picture: me, hanging in Mike’s arms, my body visibly limp, blood is trickling down my chin, and blood is smudged on Mike’s face along with dirt and gunpowder, his facial expression unreadable as he looks down on me; paramedics frozen in the motion of running towards us; behind us the White House, or what is left of it, with the black holes and still sizzling fires; the sky a bright blue, there’s no shadow anywhere just what our bodies throw to the ground. When I first saw this picture, in a giant version on the front page of a prominent newspaper, it took a few minutes for the realization to hit: when that photo was taken I was already dead. Not many people have the opportunity to look at pictures of their dead bodies. Once it was a terrifying sight, twice was slightly disturbing, thrice was disgusting and still disturbing, and every other sight since then filled me with contempt for the media and the overwhelming sense of dread. My psych would call it PTSD. I would call it the very natural reaction to seeing a fucking photo of your fucking dead body. Okay, maybe it has something to do with PTSD.

Apparently, this very picture was the one every single newspaper, tabloid, blog and whatnot used when covering the attack on the White House. Every. Single. Goddamned. One. Other than my gut reactions, it was a strange feeling that a picture of me circulated everywhere in the world and became the poster photo of the whole incident. Not a picture with the President walking out of the House, not the House itself, with the artistically scattered bulletholes and burnt marks on the white paint, no, but the picture of me and Mike. Fame was trying to capture me, what with all the talk about my mysterious person. Everyone knew who Mike was, but me? Oh boy, the things I’ve read… People have awfully active imaginations, I have to say. I think my favourite theory was that I was a goddess from outer space, who came when hearing humanity’s cries for help. Well… While this was certainly flattering, I must confess that I was born on Earth, and not as a goddess. Unfortunately.

Among all the theories were some very good guesses. Pinpoint exact. The most suspicious thing was the silence on the government’s part. Total, eerie, awkward _silence_. It wasn’t even funny anymore. Just plain embarrassing. They interviewed me about the whole mission at least a hundred times, I’m not even exaggerating here. The first few times the interviews were held in my hospital room, I’m surprised they didn’t shut down the whole ward for the occasion. Then after I got out of there, about a month later, at Langley. By the time they got to know everything about everything - including, but not limited to precise information about what I ate at particular minutes - I was halfway out of the CIA. Not in the literal sense, but in the sense that I had lost my job. Bummer.

The incident, instead of giving a blast to my career, blew holes in it, quite literally.  Holes which suspiciously looked like my face if you happened to look closely. I, or more like my facial structure, became famous. Not fortunate. I’ve never heard of a spy before - let’s not count James Bond here - who was happy to hear the following words in this particular order: I’ve seen you somewhere before, didn’t I? Well, no, being famous effectively put a halt in my otherwise promising career at the CIA. Needless to say I wasn't too happy. And Mom just had to be an asshole about it. _You’ll see it’s better like this, Bathsheba. You don’t have to lie anymore. And we won’t worry too much about you either._ When I happened to mention that lying wasn’t a problem until now, and they weren’t worrying because they didn’t know anything, she gave me the stink eye and I shut up. Mom has that killer look which makes you swallow your tongue, probably groomed to perfection by twenty plus years in the teaching profession.

Anyhow, with my face plastered to every imaginable surfaces in the world, I could hardly keep being a covert agent. Office work, on the other hand, was just not for me. Following orders didn’t become my forte over those 24 hours while I let Banning take the wheel. To think that I might have to be ordered around 24/7, without as much as a wink of independent decision time, made me sick to my core. I didn’t become a CIA agent for that. If I wanted order and discipline to dominate my life, I would’ve chosen the military. So I was essentially without a job, to my greatest chagrin, and to my parents’ greatest relief. They weren’t exactly smug about this to my face, but I knew them enough to see how glad they were. This fact made it infinitely hard to wallow and whine to them about my situation. Which left Banning as the only person with whom I could talk.

Speaking of Mike. After I woke from the coma he visited me almost every day at the hospital. It was unnecessary, but I understood his need to talk to someone who was there too. I needed that too, his company did wonders to my state of mind. Especially after the first interview with my superiors, when I had to talk about killing an American for the sake of my mission. Nightmares were the least of my problems. Sometimes I broke out in cold sweat suddenly, my heart rate dangerously elevated, my chest tightening; once the nurses came running because they thought I was dying. It was just a panic attack. Mike said it will be better, but coping was made harder by not knowing the triggers. I mean I didn’t even know what set off the attack, so it was hard to avoid it. Sometimes it happened with Mike being there and he led me through the steps to calming down like a pro. I’m guessing he had experience. He helped me through the worst, he was with me during physical therapy too, and slowly but surely we developed a very strong relationship. It wasn’t attraction, and not exactly friendship, but the unique experience we lived through together, the knowledge that you can trust someone with your life - in my case, literally -, it created an unbreakable bond. Then we realised that we could be friends too, and we became just that. So when, after two months or so, during one of our outings in Washington, sitting at a bar, sipping drinks, Mike offered me a job as a Secret Service agent, I wasn’t surprised at all.

“No way.”

Mike’s eyes widened, he was clearly confused.

“Why the hell not?!”

“I told you, I’m shit at following orders.”

“But you said I could be your boss.”

“Just for that mission, Banning, just for that. I cannot operate with other people telling me how to. I had enough of that during my childhood.”

Mike slugged down the rest of his beer before speaking again. We touched upon a topic I rarely brought up, but I knew that Mike was dying to know more about. I let him simmer in uncertainty and curiosity for long enough.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“Well, you’ve met my mother, right?”

“Yeah…”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her very much, but she’s the very definition of overbearing. And a control freak to top it. My childhood, even if it seemed pretty happy and all sugar and rainbows, was a charade of me trying to live up to expectations, and learning on the way how to pretend to be something I’m definitely not.”

Mike hummed. “I see.”

“I doubt it. But okay, you don’t have to understand. You can’t, unless you were in the same shoes.”

“Well, my father was a marine. I know a thing or two about discipline.”

I nodded, it was true. It wasn’t the same, though, but close enough. Still, Mike came to live by that discipline, while I did everything to get out of it. We were fundamentally different in this sense.

“Okay. But you have to understand, I can’t live by orders. I have to make my decisions myself.”

He nodded, then ordered another round.

“I still can’t believe you don’t drink beer. Who doesn’t drink beer?”

The topic change was welcome, even if I hated when people did that. I mean talking about beer. No one I’ve ever met and liked beer could wrap their heads around me not liking it. I rolled my eyes.

“I just don’t like it. I can pretend I do, if you want.”

“Jesus, no. You don’t have to pretend, you know. Not with me.”

I couldn’t help smiling at him. Mike became sort of my best friend along the way. Not like I had any actual friends besides him anyway. It was pretty hard to keep up relationships when one has to travel incessantly on top secret covert missions. And it goes for romantic relationships too. I didn’t miss it, but sometimes I felt a tiny bit lonely like this. Even if I loved my job essentially.

“It’s already too late for that, isn’t it? I’m an open book to you.”

It was supposed to be a lighthearted joke on my part, but Mike tensed up, and avoided my eyes. It didn’t last long, but it was enough for me to become embarrassed too, even though I had absolutely no idea why.

“Yeah, anyway, back to me being your boss…”

“No. Just no. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll find something else.”

“With your attitude, I doubt-”

“Hey! You know, my qualifications are perfect, I have a college degree, and all. And five years of experience in the CIA must mean something, right?”

“If they’ll let you write that in your resume.”

My mood quickly waned. “Ugh, now that you mention it…”

That was definitely a problem. I had to check with my ex-superiors, it shouldn’t be classified info that I was employed by the CIA at one point.

“How do you plan on finding a job where you don’t have to follow orders?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Well… My offer stands, if you fail.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

He had the courage to grin smugly at me. “Anytime.”

* * *

Two weeks later I accepted his offer, becoming a full-fledged member of the Secret Service. I realised that with my very specialized expertise and qualifications, combined with my utter reluctance to tolerate someone commanding me, any other job was quite impossible to hold down. I decided that if I had to follow orders, I’d rather they come from Banning than anyone else.

The monday morning I started work Mike greeted me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“So, who’s the boss now?”

“Shut up.”


	3. Guns

If I had to write an autobiography, or a memoir, or something like that, where people try to make their life sound more interesting and their own selves more important than they ever were… So if I had to write one, I’d be starting with the moment I first held a gun in my hands. Call me obsessed, I probably am to be completely honest, but that was one of the defining moments of my life. Worthy to be placed first in an autobiography. I had been longing to touch and fire a gun for years by then. My parents, the dignified folks they are, disapproved of this longing of mine, and forbid me even going close to one of the lethal things. Instead of guns I was allowed to shoot arrows. Needless to say, archery didn’t satisfy my curiosity towards guns, even if I was best archer in the county.

The breaking point came when I was accepted into Columbia and moved to New York for my studies. Until that moment in my life everything was controlled. My behavior, my surroundings, my daily routine, my everything was monitored and checked by my Mum. Freedom hit me like a truck when I moved away, and what was left was a dizzy and clueless ghost wandering on the roadside. Even if I had plans - shit tons of plans - for the time I’ll finally free myself from the clutches of home, nothing worked the way I expected it to. Life alone was harder than I thought. And it was impossible to shake my pretending and lying self too. It’s not that I can’t open up to people, it’s just that for 18 years of my life I was pretending to be someone else, and that’s a really hard role to shake. To unlearn putting on a comfortable mask every time you meet someone new. To unlearn giving a shit about what anyone says about you, about what they think of you. By the time I managed to gather my real self up from the gutter I already had at least three “friends” who all knew a different side of me. Tough shit.

But I was talking about guns. After I managed to get my life into order - and I did it pretty well, and pretty fast too - I started to invest in things I actually cared about. Archery was not one of them. On the other hand, finding a shooting range was. The guy who ran the place looked at me like he’d just heard the most hilarious joke in his life when I said it was my first time shooting, but didn’t let him show me the basics. I knew enough about guns already - internet, very useful invention - to handle myself. Besides, for me, my first experience with guns was a very intimate thing. Not to be shared with anyone else. Period. I guess the guy expected me to come back to him a minute later, admitting my utter ignorance and mistake. He was disappointed.

How can I describe the feeling to someone who never touched a gun? Heavier than you think. A little cold to the touch at first, then it warms up. The weight should be comfortable in your hand, the handle fitting perfectly. When it kicks back the reverberation shoots through your muscles. Much louder than you’d think, the shots ring inside your skull. It’s wonderful. As you empty the cartridge your head goes empty too, you focus more and more, until the whole world disappears. At least that’s how I felt. How I still feel.

A few months and I was top on the score listing at the range. I spent four days there every week, it became my second home, and even the owner stopped giving me the side eye when I entered. My studies were going pretty well too. Learning Asian languages and culture was more fun than I expected, and I had a knack for it, fortunately, so I didn’t have to spend every minute with studying. My social life all but died. Except for the few occasions when I went out drinking with some roommates or neighbors from the campus, I never did any socializing. And I never missed it either. Romantic relationships? To hell with them. I tried once, it ended when they guy tried to control my free time. I switched to one night stands instead, less work, more benefits.

Do I have to say that my parents knew little to nothing about what I was really doing at college? When I went home for the holidays I put on that good girl mask and bullshitted my way right through the family gatherings and the never stopping flow of interrogation-like questions. Like: do you have a boyfriend, how are your studies going, what about your friends, and my favorite: what will you do after graduation? It’s crazy what shit people will believe if you just happen to use the right voice and say all the right words. I think that period in my life was the time that I figured that I either should be investing into the scamming business - the money I could make with that, if only I hadn’t been brought up to be so nice - , or be a spy. Ironically, the second option only occurred to me as a joke that I laughed about sometimes.

Shortly before graduation I met this gal at the shooting range. She was like the third or fourth woman I saw there, and we hit it off quite well, she was a damn good shot too. We went out drinking the night after and that’s when she mentioned “serving the country” was a good option for people with my skills. And what skills would that be, I asked her, and to that she listed a bunch of things I’m pretty sure I never told her. It made me wonder - and a tiny bit creeped out. She gave me a card - just a name and phone number, again: creep alert - and went her own way. Never saw her at the range again.

For the time being I focused on my studies. Graduation was not an easy matter, I had to actually sit down and do some work for a change. It occupied most of my time and the matter of the blank card was wiped from my brain. I never thought about it again until graduation day. My parents came to the ceremony, fortunately didn’t bring the relatives, and my Mum’s first question was: and what now? I cannot say I didn’t expect it, but seriously, she could’ve at least waited until we spent a minute together. I skirted the question, like the expert I am on talking without actually saying anything. But it sure got me thinking. I was long ago aiming for some travel agency to work for, but lately it didn’t have that much appeal after all. I got so used to the freedom I had, and I discovered that I could no longer tolerate people trying to control me, or “guide” me in my decisions. Especially not when those people lacked basic knowledge about the things they were handling. Call me stuck-up, proud, selfish, and everything else, but I just couldn’t, can’t, and won’t deal with stupid people, just no.

Of course I could always cut my personality down, it was one of my specialities after all, but it put so much pressure on me that not even 24 hours in the shooting range could ease. Still, I needed a job, money is food after all. That’s when I remembered the card that woman gave me. The creepy one, yes. Might be worth a try, I thought. At best I’ll get a job by the end of the day. At worst I might end up in the hands of a human trafficking ring. The truth fell somewhere in the middle.

Janet Coleman. She was amiable and charming over the phone, and accommodating to my request to meet at a public place. I’m guessing she laughed about that behind my back, but safety was first. Yes, I had trust issues. I still have trust issues, or as I like to call it: basic survival instincts. We sat over two coffees in a busy shopping mall, Janet outlining a line of work for me which _was_ quite appealing. Travel? Check. High level of independency? Check. Using guns and other weapons? Check - most likely. Using my language skills? Check. Actually doing something useful with my life? Check. Lying to everyone about what I do? Also check. Being in mortal danger pretty much all the time? Very big checkmark for that. Yeah, well, all things considered, what Janet offered sounded amazing. So much actually, that it only took me like a week to decide to accept her offer. And that’s how my career at the CIA started.

Rigorous training was never my forte. I’m a lazy person by heart, but to be a CIA agent you should be at the top of your game. So I trained, day-to-day, all week, physically and mentally too. Procedures, basic military operation protocols, memory games and tests, shooting practice, bomb squad training, situation training, learning how to assemble a weapon blindfolded… All the good Jason Bourne stuff I learned and practiced and made it a part of my body. Turns out I was pretty good at it too. My superiors and teachers were always proud of me, and I practically felt like a superspy by the end of the training period. Then I was put on field duty and that’s when it all went to shit.

As much as I loved guns, and I will always do, a gun is nothing else but a weapon of destruction. I only realised this universal truth when I first had to use a gun against a breathing, living target. Nothing can prepare you for that moment. No matter how much you were shooting at paper targets before, no matter what your teachers told you about it, there is just no way to feel what it’s like without actually experiencing it. There’s this piece of metal in your hand, and it’s shaped and formed and forged so when you use it right, it will take away a life. When you use it right, not if. Because if you don’t want to kill anybody, then you shouldn’t have a gun in the first place. People seem to think that it’s easier to miss a shot when you’re not practiced, therefore guns are only truly dangerous in the professional hands, but this is just _so wrong_. You fuck up easier when you have no idea what you are doing, what you are _capable_ of doing. It’s so easy to imagine shooting someone, but when you are actually at that point, with your finger on the trigger, your brain trying to decide if it should give the signal to that finger to _move_ …

And the worst part isn’t the feeling which gets you when you shoot, and hit, and kill someone. It’s horrible, actually, it’s a nauseating feeling, or at least should be, but that’s not the worst. You can deal with that, if you’re in your right mind then you can work it out with your conscience. _I killed a bad man. I did what I had to do. There was just no other way._ You choose one of these mantras and say it over and over again, until the pricking by your heart stops being so fucking annoying. It won’t go away, but it’ll dull to a background pain, dismissable.

No, the worst part is that feeling, in that split second of a moment when your brain is empty, it signalled your finger to move, and the bullet flies out and no one is dead yet, but you know someone will be soon… That feeling when you think: it’s _me_ . _I_ decided to shoot. _I_ decided to take a life. _I_ could, and _I_ did. _I_ can do anything, _I_ can decide who lives and who dies. _I am-_ And then the bullet hits, and blood is gushing, or brains are blowing out, and the nausea puts a stop to all other feelings. But later you realise what you had been thinking. _Invincible. God. Almighty_ . That’s what you’ve been feeling, and it fucks you up, because it’s just so wrong, and you thought yourself better than that. Bad news: nobody is better. I feel like part of the reason why humans with a healthy amount of conscience feel so guilty about taking a life isn’t the fact that they took a life. No. It’s the fact that they enjoyed it - god help us all. You can go to church, for a confession, to a therapist, whatever, but what you never tell anyone is who _sinfully good_ it felt to play god for a second. And the amount of shame that comes with that feeling is staggering.

My first kill was a simple target. I didn’t even need to go undercover very much, and I did it from a distance - what use is there for my sniping skill when I don’t use them? Or so I thought. But it just made everything so much worse. See, you don’t feel death so close when you’re hundreds of yards away from the target. The distance makes it easier to feel invincible and strong. I suffered for months after that kill, almost left the whole damn CIA and my life behind after that. I felt like I not only betrayed myself, but my parents, how they raised me, and that I butchered my soul, my morals, my everything. It was a rough patch, I don’t even know how I got back from that. The upside was that I changed my whole view on humans. No one is above anything. We’re all fuckups, and we will fuck up, all of us, without exception. We all make bad decisions, make mistakes, but if you just have your principles and standards in the right place, eventually you’ll get it right.

I went back to the field all grown up, and not like the sissy princess I had been before that. Life teaches you the lessons you have to learn precisely at the time you need them. Superspy be damned. I just wanted to make goddamn sure I kill the right people from now on. Make sure with my own ears and eyes. Also I rarely sniped anyone after that. Just to feel that moment of death clearly, that defining moment when life ceases to be _something_  and turns into _nothing_. So I would know that in that moment I’m nothing more than my gun: a weapon of destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably point out here that I have only the very basic knowledge about guns, so... don't get my head for inaccuracies. (I'm a sword/knife girl, okay?)
> 
> Also, I did very little editing with this chapter, but i wanted to put it up all the same, will deal with the mistakes later. 
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading. :)


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